Morag Joss - Among the Missing aka Across the Bridge

He said, “There are six divers down there… Weather conditions almost ideal, very little wind… But operation may be hampered by strong currents and low visibility underwater.”

Then out on the river we heard a faint metallic cranking, and the crane jerked and shook and pulled the sagging pendulum of the car a few feet across. Then it stopped. The car hung in the air above the salvage barge until the arc of its swings diminished, and then it was lowered slowly onto the deck. As soon as the winch chains came off and were swung clear, tarps went up all around it, screening it from view. Minutes later, three police vessels came alongside the barge, and several men were brought on board.

There was nothing more to see. The small vessels around the barges began to move, some toward the jetty on the far shore, some over to our side. Ron’s boat would be among them, I supposed, but I was too far away to make out which was his. Around me the knots of spectators loosened, shifted, dispersed, but I stood where I was, and so did the man with the iPhone and his little audience.

I knew what I should expect. Why then did I not expect it?

“First images of the vehicle taken from vessels adjacent to the rescue suggest there are human remains inside,” he announced. “Police are not confirming anything at this stage and will make a statement later today.”

The man’s two sons gasped and stared. One of them said, “Human remains, wow!” and grabbed at his brother, and they sniggered in mock revulsion, caught up in the thrill and horror of it. They weren’t being cruel. Laughter was the only route they knew away from what dead bodies in a car might actually mean.

I turned to leave. I had to find Ron. How could I tell Silva? What could I tell her?

The police announced that night that postmortem examinations were being carried out on two bodies found in the car, neither of which was believed to be that of the missing woman. They would not comment on the speculation in some news reports that one of the dead was a child.

At the bridge site, the discovery of the bodies-the wrong bodies-unhinged the operation for several hours. Ron was busy into the evening with unscheduled relays of police, salvage crews, and journalists, and could not go to the cabin that night. He knew that Annabel’s mobile phone sat unused and uncharged on a shelf, and he could not bring himself to call Silva’s. They would have heard the news reports themselves on the radio. But the real reason was cowardice. Late that night he had a missed call from Silva but did not reply. He could not have borne to hear his own voice tell her there was a chance that the people who had died in the car were Stefan and Anna.

The following day he took Mr. Sturrock across the river for the Saturday bridge tour. They were surprised to see more than thirty people waiting at the jetty; over the weeks the numbers had been dwindling. Rhona said she’d been swamped with bookings since yesterday, and this was, at last, evidence of the “penetration” she had been working for. The news of the found bodies was providing an essential “enhanced human interest factor” for the journalists, while being at the same time, of course, a tragic twist.

Mr. Sturrock led them to the end of the bridge approach, gave his stern welcome, and fished out his notes (he never spoke without them). Ron knew the speech by heart now, and as he half-listened, he watched the audience. They were younger than usual, and many had camcorders and cameras. There was something else different about them, too. They were warmed up for something. This was a gathering of ghouls. Gone were the quiet attention of the regular audience of locals and the earnest types interested in bridge design, the sad concentration of people hoping for answers, paying respects to the dead.

Mr. Sturrock was telling them about concrete. “We’re well ahead of schedule,” he read from his notes, “partly because we are fortunate in having suitable sites downriver for the casting sheds, thus minimizing the cost and transportation time for the replacement concrete components. Needless to say, we inspect every casting and reject it unless it meets our strict criteria.”

As he spoke, three or four people detached themselves from the group, wandered away, and began taking pictures. Mr. Sturrock counted on his fingers. “One, concrete has to cure properly, in temperatures above zero degrees centigrade. Two, on top of the temperature, you have to think about what we call air entrainment, which is-”

“Excuse me, are there any more bodies still down there?” somebody asked. Others murmured with interest.

“What about that woman? Have they found her yet?”

“Are the divers down there now? Have they called off the search?”

“That’s a police matter,” Mr. Sturrock said. “Three, your basic concrete recipe has to suit your actual conditions. There are various chemical-”

A few more people drifted away; two or three began a conversation.

“How long would it take a human body to decompose down there?”

“The fish eat everything, that’s what I heard. Everything. Hey, mister, is it true after five months there’d just be bones?”

Mr. Sturrock paused and looked past the crowd. Two of the first defectors had strolled to the barrier at the end of the bridge road and were scanning the river with camcorders, homing in on the crane barge that had lifted the car. Their safety helmets sat on the ground at their feet.

“Hoy!” Mr. Sturrock yelled. “Hoy, you! Stop right there! You’re in breach of regulations!” He pocketed his notes and strode toward them. “You fucking jokers, get your hats on! Get your fucking hats on and get your arses off the fucking bridge!” One man stopped at once and reached for his helmet. But the other swung his camcorder round and began filming Mr. Sturrock.

Ron wasn’t in time to stop it. Mr. Sturrock let out a roar, broke into a run, lunged at the man, and wrenched the camcorder away. Holding the man off with his free hand and ignoring his shouts, he strode to the barrier and flung it into the water. He swung round to the rest of the group. “Aye, and that goes for the lot of yous! This tour is canceled! Fuck off! You are no longer authorized on these premises! So fuck off, the lot o’ yous!”

Rhona came forward, protesting, but he held up a hand. “Rhona, hen, just get them out of here, okay? I’m no’ having it. Hear me? Get them fucking out of here.”

He strode off toward the jetty, stepped into the launch, took a seat in the bow as far as possible from where Ron operated the boat, and stared out at the opposite bank. Ron followed, started the ignition, and when they were midriver he slowed the boat right down so they could feel the soft tilting of the tide against the sides. The quieting of the engine or their distance from the shore, maybe the rhythm of the waves, calmed Mr. Sturrock. He turned and shuffled down until he sat close to the stern.

“Lost my rag for a wee minute there,” he said. “Maybe I went a bit far, eh?”

He had never before talked to Ron in a tone of voice that invited a reply.

“No, served them right,” Ron said. He smiled. “Shouldn’t have taken their hats off, should they?”

Mr. Sturrock laughed. “Aye, right enough, they shouldnae.” He shook his head. “See how they were carrying on, like it’s entertainment? Nae respect.” He paused. “It’s on my mind, I suppose. Him that wasnae there the day, the English fella.”

“What English fella?”

“Fuck’s sake, yon English fella, he’s here every time. Big quiet fella, comes up from Huddersfield.”